


It's art as long as it works

by chuzhojdom



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Human, Financial Issues, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Slow Burn, human!crowley has dark eyes, some of the few things i learnt in mktg class
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25131313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuzhojdom/pseuds/chuzhojdom
Summary: Aziraphale's tattoo parlor is in a near financial crisis. Upon doing some leafleting, he stumbles upon Mr Crowley's... peculiar plant nursery.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> not a native english speaker, correct my mistakes if you spot any.  
> i see human!crowley's eyes as being dark brown, rather than golden - just meant to clarify, even if he won't appear in this chapter.

“Leaflets?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Do you think it could be helpful?”.

The _really_ was left unsaid but could be heard. Aziraphale nodded.

“The problem is, people don’t know the studio exists” he explained. “I’ll distribute it in places I know can attract the right people. Passing in front of us, someone can say _hey, I saw this studio somewhere, let’s go take a look_ ”.

The tattoo artist looked self-assured and incredibly proud of himself through his phone’s screen. Gabriel thought that explaining him that such an advertising campaign would have seemed old-fashioned in the sixties could have broken his heart. Therefore he opted for changing the topic to the main one.

“What about the guy who manages the social media pages? Adam, is it?”.

“That’s exactly why I thought about the leaflets! Social media just won’t do by themselves. Adam is doing a great job, by the way. Fault is not his”.

Gabriel breathed heavily. Aziraphale could hear some static through his earphones.

“I also penned a list of possible places. Piercing stores… places young people go to, usually”.

The thought that Aziraphale didn’t even know what young people (except for Adam and a few others) were like was sedimented in Gabriel’s brain. He sighed.

“Alright, Zira” he answered, ending the video call. “Do as you wish. See you soon”.

Gabriel was the owner of the tattoo shop, but he held little interest in the actual business as long as rent was paid. His only employee, painter-turned-tatto artist Adrian Zachary Fell, was the one in charge of everything, from actual tattoo-making to booking appointments and accountability.

Things had gone quite well for the first six months, perhaps because of the novelty of it all. Sadly it had gone downhill in a while, perhaps because of the conservativeness of the town’s older folks and the reluctancy to spread the word.

Aziraphale (the artist’s _nom de plume_ ) was not completely alone in this.

Adam Young managed the studio’s Facebook and Instagram pages. He and Aziraphale had built a weird but sincere friendship over the years, and he was a truly delightful young man. The problem was that he did it as a favour for his longtime friend, squeezing social media marketing among accounting and finance classes, basketball training, occasional working in a local pub, occasional volunteering at the local pet shelter, and his own social life.

He was not paid for it and didn’t really take it seriously, and the lack of interesting contents or an actual timetable for posts showed it. People weren’t to blame if they thought the studio was going to close - or had already done that.

Aziraphale, however, was not a complete idiot. He was overly intelligent – he just had some trouble keeping up with trends.

He decided to take matters in his own hands when he realised he hadn’t had any appointments nor walk-ins for four days straight in the last week.

“Well” he had announced to no one in particular (the place was empty) “let’s take the old route”.

Adam looked at the leaflet intently. The background was black, with a close-up of one of Zira’s proudest works – dainty pink orchids that seemed painted in oils over an ugly scar left by some unpleasant surgery.

At the bottom there was the name of the studio, _The Gates of Heaven_ , in elegant, white font. The same font was used in the top-left corner.

_Come over, we’re open all days_

_2 pm – 6 pm_

_Make sure to bring a friend with you!_

It was beautiful to watch, but unremarkable. Sadly, he didn’t have any other advice, so he decided to keep quiet about it.

“Where do you plan to bring these?” he asked to Zira, who was sitting on a swivel chair.

“A few pubs – including the one you work to, with your boss’s permission, of course” he answered thoughtfully. “The cinema, the theatre, some stores… take a look at this list and tell me your opinion”.

The list was long and neither of those places had much in common. Some had music and young people in it, which could do, but Adam didn’t know how Ms Jones’ drugstore could be of help. Anyway, it seemed a fairly good one by and large, and he told Zira so.

“Any other places to add?”

Adam thought for a few seconds. It was already a large number of places to go, when he recalled something unusual.

“There’s a sort of plant nursery in the outskirts, don’t remember where, I’ll check it for you in a second… anyway, the manager is a rather open-minded person, so he won’t make a fuss over some leaflets for a tattoo studio”.

“What’s the manager’s name?”

“I only remember his surname. Crowley, something like that”.

“Like Aleister?” Zira said with an amused smile.

Adam had literally no idea who Aleister Crowley was, so he nodded in reply.


	2. Cold from the blue sky

What Aziraphale had pictured when Adam told him about the plant nursery was a well kept but modestly sized greenhouse. An old photograph of exotic flowers, taken from one of the biology books of his childhood, flashed through his mind – dangling from the transparent ceiling, shiny with water, the atmosphere humid and warm.

What he saw after entering in the greenhouse was slightly different, but not disappointing.

In precisely arranged rows stood countless leafy shrubs that reached about his mid-section. The seven-lobed, jarred-leaved branches shone a bright, dark green. Aziraphale was wordly enough to know those plants were beautiful specimens of Cannabis sativa.

Aside from a few boxes and a forklift, the parking lot was empty and Aziraphale had expected to see someone at least inside the greenhouse – either a receptionist or a gardener he could talk to. However, the whole place seemed to be a verdant plants’ domain. He saw no one.

The heavy air and the isolated chirps of the birds outside began to bother him, as if he had no place in there. After waiting a couple of minutes with the leaflets in his hands, he felt more and more uncomfortable and would have headed towards the exit if he had not heard a grunt from a row close to him.

Aziraphale stayed still, his eyes set on the source of the noise. A man in his late thirties, with auburn hair tied in a ponytail, stood up from a bush. From his apron and gloves, dirty with soil, and his tracksuit, Aziraphale figured he must have been one of the employees.

The man had not noticed him yet.

“Hello!”, Aziraphale exclaimed, hoping to get his attention. However, the man did not budge.

“Hello?”, he repeated, waving his hands.

“I heard you. Tell me everything”.

“Uh… Well, I’m the manager of a tattoo studio in the town”, he began to explain, reaching him. “I’m doing some… good old leafleting. So I wondered if I could leave some of them, uh, here, in the greenhouse. Is Mr Crowley here?”.

The man set upright the entire time, his face downcast. He was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses that covered completely his eyes.

“ _I_ am Mr Crowley”.

“That’s wonderful!” Aziraphale’s face lit up. “How nice to meet you!”.

Mr Crowley raised his face and sketched a smile, still not taking off his glasses. “Pardon, you are a manager of what?”.

“Tattoo studio. Manager, receptionist, tattoo artist… a bit of everything, actually”, the other explained enthusiastically, handling Mr Crowley a sheet. “I used to be a painter, actually. But switched to a more lively canvas around ten years ago. Things have been at a standstill for a while, that’s why I am doing… this”.

Aziraphale laughed, hoping to not sound nervous. The other man, in all of his _normalcy_ (there was absolutely nothing remarkable in his appearance at a first glance), looked intimidating.

Mr Crowley stared at the leaflet while he explained. His facial expression did not betray anything of what he was thinking, and his glasses, which he had not taken off, did not help in the slightest.

Finally he sighed. “Look, Mr…?”

“Fell”.

“Mr Fell. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but this is Cannabis sativa for medical purposes…”.

“I had imagined it”.

“…for _medical_ purposes” he repeated with a steadier voice. Aziraphale regretted interrupting him immediately. “It took me a while to learn the perfect gardening techniques for this ones, and even more to get my license, to be allowed to set the nursery up. I have been doing this for… five years. I get regular checking visits every other months. I can guess, and perfectly understand, why.”

He stopped to fold the leaflet, putting it in his trousers’ pockets.

“I’m not saying this to bore you. If you made that tattoo” he patted his pocket, “you really are an artist and your intentions are more then genuine, but some tattoo shops are a bit less… serious, perhaps. They project an image I really don’t want to be associated with. I never accept leaflets here, nothing personal.”

Aziraphale thought that while Mr Crowley’s tone was nothing but patronising, he had a sound point. The business was his, after all.

“I understand perfectly. In fact, thank you for explaining. Have a good day!”.

To Adam’s question about how the visit at Mr Crowley’s had went, Zira answered by shrugging.

“He didn’t let me leave anything. Not that I can blame him”.

After a few minutes, he retaliated: “But did _you_ know he has a marijuana plantation?”.

“Of course I do. Hey, did you find out his name? Is it really Aleister?”.

Zira really hadn’t asked, but now the seed of curiosity had been planted. The irony.

“You don’t answer a question with a different question”.

“But it was not an answer”.


	3. Eigengrau [pt 1]

The girl had asked for a tiny tattoo on her ankle, coming up with the world _wanderlust_ in a mock-typewriter font.

“I’m not going to regret it. I love traveling after all”, she had said in a tone that was perhaps higher than she intended to.

Zira had wanted to question who, _pray tell_ , had asked her to justify her choice. He bit his tongue, not wanting to sound rude and realising that she was probably trying to justify it to herself. It was not his business. Her documents did report the age of 22, she was free to do as she wanted. Regrets were out of whatever jurisdiction Zira could have.

The appointment was booked, after making sure that the girl did not suffer from any kind of allergies, and a few formalities. She had exited the studio biting her lip, being the walking picture of anxiety, and making Aziraphale feel incredibly sorry for her.

He, therefore, was not surprised when he heard the door ring – fully expecting her to cancel. He did jump upon seeing a taller, lankier silhouette behind the door’s glass.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”.

“Don’t you recognize me?” had answered a smirking, familiar voice.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. It took a few seconds to recollect the memory – the man standing in front of him was Mr Crowley. Pointing to the dark grey armchairs in the waiting room, Aziraphale told him to make himself at home while finishing to clean up the laboratory.

That was a white lie. He had no real cleaning up to do; Aziraphale did need some seconds to figure out what Mr Crowley wanted to do there and how to react. He made it clear that he had nothing to do with Aziraphale’s business, even tangentially. But realistically speaking there was no reason to think of a disastrous scenario.

His eyes focused on one of his laboratory’s chairs, Aziraphale decided that Mr Crowley, who was a grown adult and a small entrepreneur of a sort (just like him), was not there to pull any tricks.

Unrolling his shirt’s sleeves and preparing his most welcoming smile, Aziraphale came out to properly greet his guest.

Upon being asked, Mr Crowley chose a cup of coffee, no sugar.

“To what do I owe your visit?”.

“The more I kept looking at your leaflet, the more I liked your tattoo. I wanted to drop by, say hi, and take a look at the works of art”.

While operating the coffee machine in the waiting room, Aziraphale noticed the difference between the Mr Crowley working at the plant nursery and the Mr Crowley sitting cross-legged on the armchair. With his hair down and combed back, dressed in a button down and jeans, and an interested and curious tone to his words, he was the picture of relaxation and calmness.

Again, Aziraphale could not stop marveling at the intense vibe he gave despite his ordinary appearance. Here, Mr Crowley was not at all intimidating, unlike in the greenhouse – instead, he looked so at ease, that he could have been easily misunderstood for the welcoming and friendly owner of the place.

Aziraphale did not know whether to admire him or envy him.

“Works of art is a stretch” Aziraphale answered, handing out the paper cup, and wearing his best fake modest expression. “At least, this is what most people seem to think. I’m actually a trained painter, I think I told you. I turned to tattoo out of… curiosity. Yes, that’s the best word. I stayed when I found out that the human body is the most beautiful canvas to deserve being decorated, as much as some people might disagree”.

“Do you have any tattoos?”

Almost boring question. “I do. Do _you_?”

“Absolutely no. I never thought about it”.

“What are you waiting for, then?”, asked Aziraphale, jokingly.

Mr Crowley remained pensive for a bit. “I’ll think about it”.


	4. Eigengrau [pt 2]

_What a softie you are_ , Aziraphale jokingly reprimanded himself. _All someone has to do to keep you wrapped around their finger is to tickle your pride_.

Still there he was. He had gathered some of his newest albums of sketches and photographs.

He felt his stomach warm up with pride seeing Crowley’s marveled espression.

“You created all of this all by yourself?”

Zira nodded.

Mr Crowley opened one of the albums almost reverently, and then moved it in his lap to observe better the pictures, taking off his sunglasses.

“I can see how you were a painter” he commented off-handedly. “I also see you really love plants and religious symbols”.

When Aziraphale came up with a new design inspired by flowers or leaves, he was hyperrealistic in his rendition. Every petal, every speckle of light on the surface of the leaves, was drawn in utmost detail. They almost gave off the impression of being textured when touched. When he designed crosses, or angels, or Madonnas, his style was less realistic, favouring a more vibrant, colourful come up. The lines swayed and the expressions were dynamic and intense, like a naïf painter.

In all of the sketches and the tattoos there was unmistakeable precision, firm shapes, and carefully traced details. They exuded something warm, accurate, and absolutely _Aziraphale_.

Mr Crowley observed the works intently. Zira noticed that he had really dark brown eyes, almost black, slightly hooded perhaps because of age. He generally did not pay much attention to someone’s physical features (if someone had asked him the colour of Gabriel’s hair, or whether Adam was taller or shorter than him, it would have taken a while for him to answer) but he found himself mentally describing his eyes as _intelligent_ and _deep_ – the mirror to an enlightened soul.

Having the same eyes upon him snapped Zira out of his reverie.

“Your customers must have good taste to get these inked on”.

“Well, they don’t always choose my designs. Sometimes they come up with their own, or choose more mainstream things – phrases, simple lines. Nothing to complain about. Work is work. Unfortunately no one asked me a whole glory… yet, that is”.

“A what, now?”

“A whole glory is a… surprise tattoo, we might say. The client asks for a tattoo and leaves to the artist absolute creative freedom”

The look Mr Crowley gave him was so puzzled to be almost hilarious. “Is it legal?”

“If I can do it, then yes!”

Mr Crowley kept looking at him sceptically. Then he resumed with his questions.

“Have they ever asked you to draw something you didn’t like?”.

 _Have they?_ “I’m not one to judge. But if they ask me for a distasteful slur – nah sir. Better be starving”.

“Are you the only one working here? Are there other tattoo artists?”

“There is a young man – Adam – who helps me maintaining the social media pages. He probably does it out of the goodness of his heart” he chuckled “since I can’t afford to pay him. Other tattoo artists, neither”.

Faced with Crowley’s questioning expression, he explained: “It’s not because I’m jealous of my skills… on the contrary. I’d love to teach them. I had found someone whom we could call a collaborator, but who disliked the idea of moving here. You know, being a hamlet populated by middle-aged people in the middle of nowhere”.

“They weren’t wrong, you know. In a bigger town, perhaps with students or young adults… maybe this could have been a more successful venture”.

“What can I say, I’m not famous for my smart moves”.

Mr Crowley was then distracted by his phone ringing. He looked at it. Frowning slightly, he declined the call. “Sorry, gotta go. I’m needed”.

Zira mouthed an understanding _Ah_. He took their cups, disposed of them, and made way for the door.

“You know, Mr Crowley, I’m always up for a chat and a coffee, if you wish”.

“ _How did you just call me?_ ”

He sounded so offended Aziraphale was taken aback.

“… You never quite told me your name”.

“Anthony Jay. Jay as in the bird, not the letter”.

Once the studio was empty again, Aziraphale felt like he had allucinated the whole meeting, or dreamt it.

He rubbed his eyes and placed the albums back on their shelves.


End file.
